


My Right, Redemption

by amandundundun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Engagement, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Redemption, Sexual Content, Swearing, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandundundun/pseuds/amandundundun
Summary: When a retired skater finds a way to go back in time and start his career over again, he decides to take Yuuri, Viktor, and Yuri with him. After all, what fun is dethroning the world's top figure skaters if they don't know you're doing it?Rated M for language, eventual sexual content.





	1. wake up, dumbass

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! Welcome to my first AO3 fic, and my first (published) fanfiction in like a decade. Sorry if I'm a little rusty in the writing department. Also, I'm going to let you all know right now that I know very little about skating and it will probably show. Thanks for reading. :) <3

Yuuri woke to his phone ringing.

  
It took him a few moments to find it. The phone was trapped under his body, which was a strange place for it to be. Yuuri used to fall asleep with his phone in his bed all the time when he was single, but since he had started dating Viktor his pre-sleep attention was usually on other things, and his phone was usually left on the bedside table as a result.

  
Yuuri blindly accepted the call, his face still mostly buried in his pillow. “Mmph?”

  
_“Lapochka?”_

  
Yuuri paused, confused. He turned a little so he could speak, his eyes still screwed shut against the light. “Vicchan? Where are you? What time is it?” It wasn’t like Viktor to leave without waking Yuuri up and letting him know— or for him to wake up before Yuuri, period.

  
Viktor audibly sighed in relief, further confusing Yuuri’s still fuzzy brain. _“Have you even opened your eyes yet, lyubov moya?”_ he asked with an exasperated chuckle.

  
“Mmph, no. Do I have to? Where’d you go?” Yuuri wanted his fiancé’s warmth, and was rather irritated that he didn’t have it.

  
_“What’s the last thing you remember, Yuuri? Before I just woke you up.”_ Viktor’s tone had suddenly gone rather serious.

  
Yuuri’s face scrunched in his pillow. It was too early for Viktor’s odd coaching or flirting or whatever this was. “We were at the rink, and there was this weird guy…” He trailed off. What had happened last night? Had he gotten drunk? The last thing he remembered was that they were in Boston, Massachusetts for the Worlds. He, Viktor, and Yuri had charmed their way into the practice rink (okay, Viktor had gotten them in) after-hours and had been going through their exhibitions one last time after securing their places on the podium earlier that day…

  
And then there had been the strange man who had walked up to them. He’d looked familiar to Yuuri even before he had introduced himself as a retired skater. _'I’m going to make the three of you watch as I take my rightful spot at the top!'_

  
What a weird thing to say. What a creepy guy. What an odd night. But what had happened after he’d said that? All Yuuri could remember was a strange light…

  
_“Lapochka?”_ Viktor said after a minute of silence.

  
Yuuri sat up and groaned. “Did you let me get into the mini bar after we got back from practice? I can’t remember anything after we talked to that retired skater.”

  
_“Wake up and look around, dumbass!”_ Yuuri jumped as Yuri’s sharp voice cut into the conversation. Yuuri could hear his fiancé’s protests in the background. Why was Viktor with Yuri? _“You’re not in Boston. We’re not in Boston. Something seriously fucked up is going on and your idiot boyfriend is shit at explaining.”_

  
“What are you talking abou—”

  
Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

What the fuck was going on?

The moment Yuuri opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. Even without his glasses on he recognized this room, and it definitely wasn’t the hotel room in Boston. The battered furniture, the blue curtains, the posters—

  
He scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table and shoved them on, but the new clarity only confirmed what he was seeing. School books he hadn’t seen in years were strewn on the ground beside his bed. A jacket he had left on a bus and replaced three times over hung on the back of his door. The calendar above his desk said 2011.

  
Yuuri could feel the panic starting to buzz in his head. He gripped the phone to his ear tighter. “Viktor?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  
_“I’m right here, love. Everything is going to be okay.”_

  
“I’m in Detroit.” Saying it out loud sounded impossible— absurd. He had left Detroit almost a year ago.

  
_“I know.”_

  
“Are you— does that mean— you’re in St. Petersburg?”

  
_“—Yes, solnyshko.”_

  
“What’s happening?”

  
_“We went back in time.”_

  
The way Viktor said it—‘ _back in time_ ’— like it was possible. Like this wasn’t some sort of fever dream or the result of hysteria. Maybe winning a gold medal at Worlds over Viktor Nikiforov had caused him to snap. Fuck, maybe that had been a delusion in itself. Maybe being engaged to Viktor was a delusion— maybe he had dreamt the last four years and it had been 2011 all along—

  
Yuuri’s breathing grew uneven as the buzzing in his head grew louder.

  
_“Breathe, Yuuri. I’m right here,”_ Viktor said calmly.

  
That’s right, Yuuri told himself, his panic easing somewhat. If it had all been a dream, he wouldn’t be on the phone with Viktor right now.

  
_“Is he freaking out again?”_ Yuuri could hear the youngest skater shouting over the line. _“Tell the pig he isn’t allowed to freak out. I’m four fucking feet tall, he’s just in America!”_

  
Yuuri’s breathing grew more ragged. He was in America. Viktor was in Russia. Everything is so fucked up and he’s so far away.

  
A knock on the bedroom door broke Yuuri’s concentration on the swirling black mass inside his head. “Yuuri? Are you almost ready? We’re running late.”

  
Phichit. Relief flooded him. At least he wasn’t completely alone. But what was he going to tell his friend? That he had woken up in 2011 even though he was supposed to be in 2016? Even Phichit would call him a damn ambulance.

  
“One--one second!” Yuuri called. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “Viktor, what do I do? I think I have to go to practice.”

  
_“Just go and pretend everything’s fine,”_ Viktor said firmly. _“Call me on your break-- or sooner, if you need to. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”_

  
Yuuri decided to let himself believe Viktor, because otherwise he was going to have a stroke.

  
Phone squeezed between his shoulder and his ear, listening to Viktor’s calm encouragements, Yuuri scrambled around the room, grabbing his gear and changing into workout clothes.

  
“Yuuri, Ciao Ciao’s gonna kill us!” Phichit called impatiently from the hall.

  
Yuuri choked on toothpaste. “Coming!”

  
_“I’m going to hang up now. Try to have fun today,”_ Viktor said as Yuuri rinsed his mouth.

  
“Fun?” Yuuri asked in disbelief.

  
_“Yeah! Go dazzle Celestino and Phichit with your skating skills. Eat some American food. We’ll talk later, I love you.”_

  
Yuuri’s heart flubbed a jump in his chest. “I love you, too.”

  
He hung up the phone with a shaky hand, the silence suddenly deafening. 

 

________________

April 1st, 2016

Yuuri’s gold medal felt heavy around his neck.

  
It had been one thing to win gold at Japanese Nationals and Four Continents. Nobody at Nationals had posed a real threat to his record-breaking routines, and Yuuri had been so focused on crushing JJ and his horrible attitude that he hadn’t had time to feel nervous at 4C. But Yuuri had never really expected to beat both Yuri and _Viktor Fucking Nikiforov_ at Worlds.

  
Katsuki Yuuri was now a World Champion, and he felt like he might puke.

  
Viktor, however, was ecstatic. The disappointment of second place had seemed to fade as soon as it flashed across his face. He had showered Yuuri with kisses at the Kiss and Cry as the audience erupted around them. At the press conference he’d waved off every negative question and assured everyone he was thrilled with the result-- after all, Yuuri had put significantly more time into his program than Viktor himself had, so it only made sense for him to win. At dinner with the other skaters, he’d ordered bottle after bottle of champagne and shouted, _“My fiancé won gold, we’re getting married!”_ to the whole restaurant.

  
Married. Yuuri had won gold at an international competition, which meant they were _getting married_.

  
But his anxiety wouldn’t let him hold onto the joy of a gold medal and a solidified engagement to the love of his life. By the time they got back to the hotel for the night, Yuuri felt miserable. He had only managed to choke down enough champagne to make the buzzing panic in his brain worse rather than any semblance of better, and he couldn’t stop staring at his gold medal next to Viktor’s silver on the bedspread.

  
He had spent the last twelve years rooting for Viktor. Every time he won less than gold, Yuuri had felt it as if it was his own loss. Everything Viktor did was so beautiful and so effortless. His skating over the last couple days had brought tears to Yuuri’s eyes. It had been so overwhelming to watch both his idol and the man he loved make his comeback, but because Yuuri had taken up so much of his time over the past year, he hadn’t been in top form. Yuuri had only won because Viktor had split his time between Yuuri and his own programs. If he had focused on himself like he had in the past he would have beat Yuuri without question.

  
Yuuri still wasn’t good enough.

  
Arms wound around Yuuri’s waist and Viktor’s body pressed against his back, warm and damp from the shower. “What are you thinking about?” Viktor murmured against his shoulder before placing a sloppy kiss there.

  
Yuuri didn’t answer right away-- he tried to let himself melt into Viktor’s embrace, but his mind wouldn’t give up. Guilt and doubt and fear combined into a toxic sludge that was leaking from every pore in his body, coating his skin and making him feel raw, exposed, sick. He shuddered in Viktor’s arms, and Viktor turned Yuuri to face him. His eyes were full of concern.

  
“I—I’m sorry,” Yuuri stammered. He could feel the tears coming. It was stupid, but he couldn’t stop them. Not when Viktor was looking at him, worried about something that was Yuuri’s fault.

  
“For what?” Viktor asked softly.

  
“I don’t deserve the g-gold,” Yuuri choked out, his eyes breaking away from Viktor’s. He knew what his fiancé would say, and he knew what his coach would say. Yuuri didn’t want to hear from either and he knew he wouldn’t get a word out of the person he wanted— Viktor the competitor.

  
As expected, Viktor tilted Yuuri’s chin so their eyes met again— gently, caressing Yuuri’s cheek with his thumb. He was Yuuri’s fiancé right now, then. Yuuri held Viktor’s gaze. “I’m going to keep telling you this until you understand, even if it takes forever because of that hateful anxiety of yours. So listen up, okay?”

  
A beat passed between them before Yuuri realized Viktor wanted an actual response. He nodded reluctantly.

  
“You’re not just some random skater. You’re Japan’s top skater, and one of the best in the world. You hold the Free Skate world record, you’ve won gold and silver in international competitions, and you’re the 2016 World Champion. It doesn’t matter what the competition was like in each of those instances, or whether it was a stroke of luck or truly genius and talent that got you those accomplishments. You could analyze any win by any skater and find a million ways they could have lost, because that’s just how it works. We all win and lose by a hair, by a breath, by a chip in the ice or a broken lace or a personal loss. When it comes down to it, any of the top five or so skaters today could have taken the gold by chance, but you did because you worked so hard to master your skating and your emotions that not a single act of fate could stop you from having the absolute best programs performed in the most beautiful and skillful way. You deserve this, Yuuri.”

  
Yuuri couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat to respond so he just nodded again.

  
“You’ll try to believe me?” Viktor said softly, running his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip.

  
“Sure,” Yuuri whispered. “Thank you.”

  
“Anytime, love.” Viktor smiled and pulled Yuuri closer.

  
The chances of Viktor’s sweet words taking hold were slim, for for the moment Yuuri let himself relax as Viktor placed loving kisses down his neck. His lips were warm and soft, and his hands were starting to travel down Yuuri’s body. Excitement and arousal flooded Yuuri’s brain, pushing aside the guilt and anxiety for the moment. Yuuri tangled his hands in soft silver hair and used his grip to navigate Viktor’s lips to his own.

  
Their lips had barely pressed together when they were startled apart by someone pounding on the door.

  
“Old man! Help me get into the practice rink, I can’t sleep!” Yuri yelled from the hallway.

  
Viktor tossed his head back and groaned dramatically. “He has the worst timing.”

  
Yuuri chuckled. “Yeah, and now I kind of want to go skating.” Sex was a good distraction, but skating was therapy, and Yuuri could use some therapy at the moment.

  
Viktor groaned again, but seeing the look in Yuuri’s eyes he didn’t hesitate to yell back, “Alright, Yura, one minute!” He turned back to Yuuri and pulled him into a brief, bruising kiss. “There better be pair skating in this for me,” he said with a teasing grin.

  
“Sounds good to me.”

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov has more charm in one of his silver hairs than most people have in their entire body. A smile and an autograph was all it took to get them into the rink after hours, and they left the security guard at the front door beaming like he was the one who had just been done a giant favor.

  
“You’ve got to teach me how to do that some time,” Yuri said, his tone the least aggressive Yuuri had heard it in weeks. There may have even been respect in his voice.

  
“I don’t know, Yura. Some things just can’t be taught,” Viktor said grandly as he threw an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders.

  
Yuri scowled, his blonde hair falling back into his eyes as he stalked past them toward the rink. “It’s probably for the best. With your teaching skills, I’d end up with your idiocy, too,” he snapped.

  
The rink was heavily scarred from a long day of use, but Yuuri was glad they weren’t going to cause more work for the maintenance staff by scuffing up pristine ice. Yuuri and Viktor took their time pulling out their skates and lacing them up, allowing Yuri time to have the rink to himself.

  
“So are your guard-bribing skills really impossible to teach, or do you think you could add that to my training schedule?” Yuuri joked as he finished his second skate and stood.

  
“Ah, Yuuri, I have nothing to teach a master. You’ve been logging after-hours time at rinks much longer than I have,” Viktor replied with a shrug.

 

“That’s different,” Yuuri protested, “The Nishigoris aren’t as hard to convince as an American security guard—”

  
Yuuri cut off when he heard the echoing click of the rink doors being opened. He turned, expecting to see the guard, but instead a stranger walked in with a duffel bag.

  
“Well, maybe that security guard is just there for show,” Viktor quipped. “My skills aren’t as rare after all.”

  
The skater— a young man about Yuuri’s age— caught them watching him and waved brightly, hurrying to join them. Yuuri didn’t have time to ask Viktor if he knew the man before he spoke. “Hello, Viktor! Good to see you again, it’s been a while.”

  
Viktor’s Celebrity Smile™ slid on so fast Yuuri knew immediately that Viktor had no idea who this guy was. And thank God for that, because if Yuuri had to meet one more of Viktor’s old flings he was going to scream.

  
“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” Viktor said, shaking the man’s hand. “But my memory isn’t what it used to be. Could you remind me where we’ve met?”

  
Something flickered in the man’s expression. Yuuri guessed disappointment. Maybe later Yuuri would encourage the man not to take it personally— Viktor really did have a horrible memory. But the guy took the blow like a champ, his cheery smile barely wavering. “I’m Ted Faust— we shared the podium a few times five or six years ago.”

  
Ouch. A fellow medalist. Viktor really needed to break open those memory-boosting games he kept getting as presents.

  
But, luckily, genuine recognition lit up Viktor’s face. “Oh, Teddy!” he said, clapping his hands together. “You look so different with facial hair, it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize you.”

  
That eased the tension in the air a little bit, although maybe the tension had been coming mostly from Yuuri in the first place. He was terrible at reading people, and with his big sunny smile, Teddy seemed to have Viktor-level bullshitting skills.

  
Viktor clapped a hand down on Yuuri’s shoulder, making him jump. “Teddy, this is my fiancé, Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri, Teddy used to skate for America. He was always one of the favorites to beat me!”

  
“Ah, but I never did, did I?” Teddy laughed, an edge to his voice. Viktor probably noticed, but he was used to this sort of exchange by now, so he didn’t even flinch. “Although I was getting closer when I had my accident.”

  
Before Viktor could respond, Teddy turned to Yuuri and explained. “A few hours after the medal ceremony at the Grand Prix in 2011, I was out drinking with Viktor and some of the other skaters to celebrate my silver medal and I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my ankle. I probably could have recovered in time for the next season, but I took some bad advice and ended up re-injuring it, and that was the end of my career.” Teddy’s voice grew tight near the end.

  
Before Yuuri could stammer an awkward and unwanted apology, a voice spoke up from behind them.

  
“That fucking sucks,” Yuri said flatly, looking bored and a little annoyed. “Are we going to skate or what?”

  
“Yuri,” Viktor snapped, “Don’t be rude.”

  
Teddy seemed largely unruffled. “Sounds like the rumors about the Russian Punk are true,” he said brightly. “Nice to meet you, Plisetsky. Your gold medal at the Grand Prix was well deserved. As was yours this weekend, Katsuki,” Teddy said with a nod in Yuuri’s direction.

  
Yuuri thanked him at the same time Yuri grunted and shrugged.

  
“All three of you are doing so well this season,” Teddy gushed. But a competitor’s glint filled his eyes as he shrugged his bag off his shoulder onto the bench next to him. “And I think I’ve come up with a way to get back in competition with you guys.”

  
Yuri grunted again, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, yeah?” he sneered.

  
Viktor shot Yuri a withering look. “That’s great, Teddy.”

  
As Viktor and Yuri glared at each other, Yuuri watched Teddy unzip his duffle bag and take something out. He held it out to the other three skaters proudly. “Ta da!” he exclaimed, his hazel eyes sparkling.

  
It was a tiny vial of luminescent liquid, giving off its own soft white light.

  
The three friends stared, speechless.

  
“Glowstick juice?” Yuri finally asked dryly.

  
“Um, Teddy—” Viktor began. He looked concerned, and Yuuri didn’t blame him. He had heard stories of weird things injured athletes did to reclaim their careers— even witnessed some of them first-hand— and many of them were dangerous and stupid. Yuuri wasn’t sure what was in Teddy’s vial, but it definitely didn’t look like it should be ingested. And nobody wanted him puking on the ice.

  
But Teddy held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t worry, Viktor. I’ve been planning this for a long time. Using this, I get to restart my career, and I’m going to make the three of you watch as I take my rightful spot at the top!”

  
And with that— before the other three could even process his words— Teddy dropped the vial onto the ground and everything exploded into light. 


	2. makka is brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor had always had vivid dreams. They were often vibrant with colors and details—winding stories with intricate settings and people from every stage of his life. He’d taken to telling Yuuri all about them in the morning because he listened with such attentive enthusiasm. So when he woke up that morning in his first St. Petersburg apartment still groggy from sleep, his first thought was that he hoped this dream would be good enough to tell Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two!! When Viktor woke up. Thanks for reading.

Viktor had always had vivid dreams. They were often vibrant with colors and details—winding stories with intricate settings and people from every stage of his life. He’d taken to telling Yuuri all about them in the morning because he listened with such attentive enthusiasm. So when he woke up that morning in his first St. Petersburg apartment still groggy from sleep, his first thought was that he hoped this dream would be good enough to tell Yuuri.

His second thought was _Oof!_ when Makkachin jumped on his chest with an excited bark.

And his third thought—because he was tired, not stupid—was _this is not a dream._

Maybe he was hallucinating. Or dead. Or someone was playing a really, really elaborate prank on him. One that apparently included flying him back to Russia, meticulously recreating his crappy apartment, and dying all the little white hairs on Makka’s face back to their original brown.

Oh, and then there was his hair. Which was miraculously chest-length again.

Viktor had never had a panic attack before, but he had seen plenty of Yuuri’s and he was pretty sure he was having one as he ran his fingers through his long hair. He’d cut it years ago, right after he’d sworn off pretending to date girls to protect his image as a lady’s man. He’d just given himself a less androgynous hairstyle and _bam!_ There went all the speculation about him being gay. It was strange, really, because suddenly he was exclusively dating guys and acting gayer than ever.

Whatever. He was getting distracted. What really mattered was that his hair was long and his dog was brown and _where the fuck was Yuuri._

“Yuuri?” Viktor called into the small main room as he pushed his bedroom door open. “ _Zolotse?_ Please tell me you’re here.”

There was a lightness and lack of strength in his body he wasn’t used to. His hair felt heavy on his shoulders. The room was chilly and empty.

“ _Lyubov moya?”_ He heard his own voice crack.

It hadn’t all been a dream, had it? Yes, he was back in 2011 (according to his phone, his hair, his dog, and his apartment), but it had all been so _real._ He could still feel Yuuri’s warmth in his arms, the taste of his skin on his tongue—see the light in his brown eyes and smell his mild, spicy cologne…

Viktor gripped the kitchen counter to keep himself from falling over. He was shaking so violently he felt sick, and his legs threatened to buckle underneath him. This was so, so, so wrong. It was like the universe was playing some shitty joke on him. Just when he had finally been happy—finally found the man of his dreams.

It _ached._ He wasn’t even sure what was going on, or why he was here again, but the fact that Yuuri wasn’t next to him was…

Makka nudged his leg and whined. He looked at her and the worry in her dark eyes. Shit, now he was freaking his dog out.

He took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. “Sorry, Makka-girl,” he whispered, running a hand over her fur. He needed to pull himself together and figure out what was happening.

As he rummaged around the kitchen for coffee and dog food he tried to remember how he fell asleep last night. But the last thing he remembered was the cool rink air and the fluorescent lights reflected in Yuuri’s blue-rimmed glasses. He didn’t remember leaving the rink or going back to the hotel.

Sipping the freshly brewed coffee, he scrolled through his phone. His heart sunk lower and lower in his chest as every old-fashioned app and out-of-date emoji confirmed what he feared—this wasn’t fake. This wasn’t a dream. There was no way the burn of discount coffee on his tongue was in his imagination. His memory was pure crap, so he doubted his brain could’ve reconstructed this.

Which gave him only one rational explanation, and it was the one that made him feel like somebody was plunging a knife into his chest.

Viktor closed his eyes and clutched the mug a little tighter in his hands. He could feel the panic bubbling inside him again, whiting out his thoughts—he’d never figure out what to do if he let himself fall apart. So, he did the only thing he could think of and went to his happy place.

He imagined his hands were wrapped around a mug of imported coffee in one of his poodle-printed mugs. Focusing on the sounds Makka made as she ate, he tried to pretend he was on his sleek couch in his modern St. Petersburg apartment. Yuuri was just in the bedroom, and if Viktor got up and crossed the apartment he would find his fiancé dozing in the morning sunshine. If he snuggled into bed behind Yuuri, pulling him to his chest and nuzzling his inky hair, Yuuri would grumble and sigh at being disturbed before relaxing into Viktor with a small, satisfied sound.

His phone vibrated on his lap.

Wiping away the tears that had formed in his eyes, Viktor answered. Before he could get out even a “hello,” he was greeted by the familiar sound of his coach’s angry voice. “You’re late to practice,” Yakov growled. “Get your ass down here before I drop you.”

Part of Viktor wanted to hang up without a word, but a stronger part of him reached out and grabbed the promise of something familiar and soothing. Skates on his feet, ice under his skates, Yakov’s rough words echoing through the room.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You look like shit,” Yakov snapped at Viktor.

Yeah, he bet he fucking did. Viktor had done the basics, but hadn’t had the energy or presence of mind to try and wrangle his long hair into his once-signature sleek ponytail. He had used so many shitty products when he was younger, and the moment he had looked at his overcrowded sink he had decided he didn’t give a single fuck what he looked like and stormed out the door.

“I feel like shit,” Viktor replied simply, lacing up his second skate. He tried not to dwell on the fact that they weren’t gold plated, just like he tried to ignore the ponytail on his shoulder and the long-retired skaters watching him curiously from the ice. He just needed to skate. It would clear his head, and then he would be able to figure out what to do.

“Look, Vitya,” Yakov said, “I don’t care how you spend your nights, but you need to be able to skate the next day. And show up on time, for god sake.”

“It won’t happen again,” Viktor lied. He couldn’t even think about spending another day feeling like this—there was no way he knew if he’d be able to get up the next day at all.

Yakov had very different reasons to doubt his student, but his displeasure at the lie was clear on his face. “Just get out there and run through your free program.”

Viktor barely suppressed an irritated sigh. Of course, Yakov wanted him to work on something for a competition. He checked his phone again for the date. It was August 2011. What was his theme that year again—Pride, maybe? Or was that 2010? It could have been fucking Borscht for all he knew, and if he asked, Yakov would either turn the color of borscht or go on a rant about how Viktor would be the death of him. Probably both.

Yakov walked away for a few minutes to yell at one of the other skaters, and Viktor took the opportunity to open his phone and look through his music playlist. The most recently played songs were mostly Russian and American pop—wait. Two songs stood out, and Viktor felt a rush of relief as pieces of programs began to crawl out of the dusty parts of his brain. He’d run through something else for now—something more familiar—but at least he had something for when Yakov forced him to stop ‘messing around.’

Viktor’s mind seemed to go blank when he stepped onto the ice, and he eagerly let it. He let his feet do as they wished, tracing familiar lines and loops—pieces of his 2016 programs, pieces of Yuuri’s. When he launched into the _Eros_ step sequence, he reveled in the painful pressure it put on his heart.

But the catharsis was cut short by a low whistle behind him. Viktor turned toward the noise and was instantly irritated, because of-fucking-course.

Roman had been the result of Viktor’s inexperience dating men, and the consequence had been a feeling of inadequacy he still felt five years later. August 2011 put him just weeks from the beginning of what was less of a relationship and more of an eight-month-long series of encounters and emotional abuse.

“That’s a gorgeous step sequence,” Roman practically fucking _purred._ He stood there looking exactly as Viktor remembered—tall and slim and dark-haired, all sharp edges and conventional good looks. Viktor felt his body freeze and his celebrity smile plaster on his face—something he had trained himself over the years to do when he felt caught off-guard. But he could feel bile creeping up his throat. “It’s so _sensual.”_

Viktor clenched his fists. Hearing _Roman_ say something like that about _his Yuuri’s_ step sequence made him want to puke. Viktor could handle the predatory look in Roman’s eyes and the discomfort of standing face-to-face with someone he had wished never to see again, but having him even _this_ close to Yuuri—commenting on a bit of skating usually done by him—nearly made Viktor shudder.

Yuuri had met an unfortunate amount of Viktor’s exes so far, but Viktor prayed he _never_ met Roman.

Viktor still hadn’t said anything, so Roman skated closer. “Is that part of one of your new programs?”

“No, it’s not mine,” Viktor finally found the voice to say, pushing off to keep his distance from the older skater.

“It suits you,” Roman said, his tone still a little too deep and smooth to be considered casual. “The original skater would be shaking in their boots if they had been here to see that.”

Viktor stifled a laugh. Not only was he not skating his best today, the last time he had skated _Eros_ in front of Yuuri, Yuuri had called his step sequence ‘a little sloppy’ with his cute little nose wrinkled. Then he had promptly turned red and taken it back even though Viktor had agreed and found the criticism kind of a turn on.

Thank God he only found Yuuri’s critiques sexy, because otherwise Viktor and Yakov would have a very different relationship.

“Hey, _old man!”_

Someone shoved Viktor from behind, slamming him into the rink wall he had been making his way toward. He steadied himself and turned, coming face to face with the Russian Kitten.

Yuri was _tiny—_ much smaller than he really should’ve been at eleven years old-- and his blonde hair was cropped short. He glared at Viktor, a finger pointed in his face. “What did your creepy American friend _do_ to us?”

Viktor just stared at him for a moment, completely confused. What American friend? Why was Yurio talking to him—they hadn’t really met until Yurio got to Juniors. “What are you talking about?”

Yuri paused, his eyes narrowing into slits. Even as a four-foot pre-teen, his presence was foreboding. Roman hesitated to the side of them, looking unsure of what to do. And then, it clicked.

The memories of the night before flooded back to Viktor. They had been visited by Teddy Faust at the rink in Boston, and there had been a bright light—

Hope surged through him. “Yurio?” he tested.

“That’s not my name,” Yuri snapped, but he looked relieved.

Viktor launched forward and caught Yuri in a bone-crushing hug. “Yura! I thought I was going crazy!”

Viktor could feel the vibrations of Yuri’s growls before he could hear them. “You’re already crazy, idiot,” Yuri snarled, pushing against Viktor. “Let me down before I slice your legs with my skates.”

Viktor did as he was told, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He wasn’t alone, and _he wasn’t going crazy._ Everything that had happened with his Yuuri was _real._

“Hey, you’re a friend of Viktor’s?” Roman’s voice sliced into the conversation.

And the irritation was back.

Yuri looked at Viktor for a moment before turning to Roman. “Fuck off. I need to talk to Viktor alone.”

Roman blinked, his fake smile frozen to his face. “Um—” he looked at Viktor.

Viktor pulled out his own Smile™ and shrugged at Roman like, ‘Kids. What are you gonna do?’

Roman looked back at Yuri, whose glare may have killed a less self-absorbed man, and skated away.

Yuri turned back to Viktor, his tiny arms folded over his chest. “I’m surprised you’re not already on a one-way flight to wherever the hell the pig is.”

Viktor’s chest tightened. “I just found out now that I wasn’t alone. We don’t know that Yuuri is here, too.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “He was standing right there when that stupid American did whatever he did to us. You know—that little glowing vial?”

“So—you think he remembers me?” Hope washed over Viktor, loosening the muscles that had tightened to stone over the last few hours.

Viktor didn’t know it was possible for someone to roll their eyes _harder—_ but Yuri did, his shoulders shrugging dramatically. “Just call him and find out.”

“He should be living in America right now—I never knew his number when he lived in Detroit,” Viktor said with a shake of his head.

“Then find someone who does, dumbass,” Yuri snapped. “Go get your phone, I’m not dealing with your moping any longer than I have to.”

They stepped off the ice, put on their blade guards, and made their way to Viktor’s bag. Yakov tried to herd them back onto the rink, but Viktor insisted on a break. “I think I may have strained my muscles,” Viktor pouted.

Yakov knew that was a damn lie but only narrowed his eyes and walked away growling.

A few minutes later he was texting Chris.

_To Chris:_

  _Do you have Yuuri Katsuki’s phone #?_

_From Chris:_

_Yes. Why?_

_To Chris:_

_We met and he gave me his # but I lost it._

_From Chris:_

_Wow, good 4 him. Invite me to the wedding._

_To Chris:_

_Done!!_

 

* * *

 

 

“Lapochka?”

“ _…Vicchan?”_

If Viktor hadn’t been sitting he would’ve fallen to his knees. The relief hit him so suddenly it was like he had been pushed into the Neva. _Yuuri remembered him._ It was going to be okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
